


There Are No Shadows Here

by Lingwiloke



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Developing Friendship, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Panic Attacks, more unspoken background than you can shake a stick at and it's kind of killing me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 15:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20819876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lingwiloke/pseuds/Lingwiloke
Summary: The first time they meet, Maeglin is trying very hard to be someone else.





	There Are No Shadows Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rose_a_lee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_a_lee/gifts).

> Dear giftee, I really hope this turned out to your liking, and you will forgive me for sort of mixing two of your prompts together! The idea just came to me when I realized how alike Túrin and Maeglin are in some respects, and wouldn't let me go...
> 
> Beta by Lord_Byron <3

The first time they meet, Maeglin is trying very hard to be someone else.

It is a familiar exercise, the only difference now that those around him are strangers to him as much as he is to himself. The monster behind the mask, on the other hand, is the same, even a death later. He still cannot fathom how they could not sense it - sense the poison crawling up his throat that threatens to spill from his lips every time he opens his mouth, the shadows writhing beneath his skin just waiting to leap up and consume them all.

The _belain_ have scored out the shadows, or so they say; to make him whole again. Maeglin certainly feels that - scoured out - only he is not so sure that what is left can be called whole by any standard, can even still be called a person.

But he is used to pretending, and following the steps of the dance is so much easier when there is no-one inside to resist the tug of the puppet-strings, anyway; no-one to feel all that fear and shame and hate and despair crowding overhead.

\- _This joyous occasion_ \- Bow. - _very pleased to_ \- Smile. - _truly lovely_ \- Compliment. - _ah, but the time_ \- Deflect.

Repeat.

A sea of faces he has never seen before and probably will never see again, and he lets himself drown in it, be swept farther and farther away from whatever it is that is left of _Maeglin Lómion_.

Until there is a flash of white and gold who stops him in his tracks, and when he follows it, a graceful figure twirling on the dance floor, bare feet moving lightly through the steps and golden hair like streams of sunlight -

The dancer turns his way, and the illusion is broken. A stranger's eyes look at him from a stranger's face, sweep past him to settle on another.

He stumbles back, cold creeping up his spine and her figure bleeding away into a dance of moving colours and shapes as his vision becomes blurry. Instead of the dancer's smiling face he sees another, drawn with fear and hatred as she looks at him; there is fire, screams in the air, acrid smoke burning his throat and leaving him gasping for breath.

He blinks, shakes his head desperately, and there is the ballroom again, but his eyes cannot seem to focus - suddenly, all seems wrong somehow, distorted, the pleasant hum of the festivities morphed into the harsh, guttural tones and the shrieking laughter of the Enemy's servants - candlelight jumping upward into roaring flames - darkness pooling in his very core, crawling outward, swallowing him, suffocating him - he needs to _breathe_ -

It is Gwindor who happens to find him, though Maeglin doesn't know that name yet as he is kneeling in the mud in a deserted corner of the courtyard, retching and gasping and desperately trying to get some air back into his lungs. All Maeglin knows is that there is a steadying hand rubbing soothing circles into his back, and a calm voice telling him that he is safe, that it will be over soon. His heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribcage and for a moment he is certain that he is going to die a second time. Unfortunately, he doesn't - ever so slowly, the dizziness recedes, and he is left cold and shaking and immeasurably exhausted.

The stranger pats his arm and then a cloak is draped over his shoulders. He says something about water, and it takes a moment for Maeglin to realize he is expected to give some sort of response. He nods, and watches the other walk towards the main hall.

As soon as he is out of sight, Maeglin draws himself up and stumbles away into the darkness on shaking legs, hating himself for how much he wishes he could stay.

***

He does not mean to come back again.

It takes him a day and a half to piece himself back together again, to recover something approaching equilibrium; but this night has reminded him that he is still Maeglin, the traitor, however much he may try to be someone else, and he does not belong here.

But if he wants to leave, permanently, he will need supplies, and the settlement of Nargothrond survivors he had chosen for his last disastrous run-in with civilized society is still closest to his hide-away in the woods. And as loath as he is to admit it, the place has started to grow on him. Its inhabitants have adopted a style of architecture that is reassuringly unlike Tirion, a city which he has seen only once and which reminds him far, far too much of another white city. This place, on the other hand, does not seem all that Noldorin, with its sprawling, ground-level structures that at times reach partway into the earth, and the way it melts almost seamlessly into the forest at its northern edge, where age-old trees are incorporated into the housing rather than cut down to make way. There is enough of the forest to make him feel safe, and enough open space to not make him feel suffocated by it.

Which is why he decides to come back after all, take one last look at the town while he gets what he needs.

None of that, however, is any explanation for how he somehow finds himself crouching uncomfortably between the roots of a gargantuan oak tree, awkwardly patting the back of his helpful stranger from the night before. Who is very unstable on his feet, very drunk, and talks a terrible lot about love and loss and faith, and also, weirdly, about bridges. Fortunately, he seems rather too inebriated to recall their previous encounter. Unfortunately, he refuses to answer any inquiries about the whereabouts of his home, or any companions he might have had at the beginning of the night, and Maeglin finds himself rather at a loss what to do. Especially since the streets are deserted at this time of night - which is why, supplies acquired, he chose this time to make his way back home in the first place - and there is no convenient passersby to unload his charge onto.

He could just leave him here, he supposes - this is Aman, and the nights are mild and blessedly free of marauding orcs and starving wildlife alike. Still, it doesn't feel right. He blinks in surprise as the other suddenly lists to the side, then leans heavily against his shoulder. Bleary grey eyes stare up at him. "You're not..." A frown, then his expression clears. "'m Gwindor. Who are you?"

"I... no-one. No-one you should concern yourself with."

"No-one, huh?" For some reason, this makes the other laugh. "Still better than bloodstained son of ill-fate[1], 'm guessing."

In the end, he stays like that until the other falls asleep in his lap, awkwardly wrapped into the bottom half of Maeglin's cloak. When he is sure the elf is too out of it to notice, he manages to carefully extricate himself, if not his cloak. Then ends up hiding in the shadow of a nearby building until, at dawn, the first of the townsfolk begin to stir, and is satisfied to see someone take an appropriately concerned interest in the lonely figure curled up at the tree's base.

***

By midday, Maeglin has packed his meagre belongings and made sure what tools he cannot take are neatly stored away where no inquiring children or animals might happen upon them. He shakes his head at himself for even entertaining the thought of coming back one day; he has stayed much too long already.

He is about to leave when there is a knock at the door. Maeglin freezes; and for a moment contemplates running. Except he did not exactly build this place with escape plans in mind, and the single window is much too small to fit through.

Before he can further decide on a course of action, the door creaks open.

It's Gwindor. Disheveled and slightly breathless, but to all appearances, sober.

"Your cloak" ,he says by way of explanation, holding out the item. "And... thank you."

There is an awkward silence, as Maeglin just stares, not sure if he ought to feel shame or fear or exasperation and ending up simply confused.

As it becomes clear Maeglin is not going to take the proffered cloak, Gwindor shifts in the doorway, clears his throat, then stops himself as he seems to take in the deserted hut and Maeglin's travel attire.

"May - may I ask where you are going, if it is not too presumptuous-?"

"It is." The question snaps Maeglin out of his stupor, and he straightens.

"I see." Still, the other makes no motion to abandon his post in the doorway.

Maeglin scowls at him, which seem to leave Gwindor entirely unfazed. "How did you even find me so quickly?"

Gwindor shrugs. "I asked around. Dark, brooding, ridiculously self-recriminatory chosen name - seemed to do the trick." A loop-sided grin. "You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago."

That gives Maeglin pause, if briefly.

"Whatever you see in me, I can assure you, you are mistaken."

The other thoughtfully pats the cloak still in his arms, then looks back up at Maeglin with an odd expression on his face. "Am I?"

This is getting out of hand. He should have just shouldered past him and run, the moment he saw who it was. "I think you had better leave."

"You don't have to do this all on your own, you know."

Maeglin laughs, no humour to the sound. "What, are you offering me your friendship now?"

"What if I am?"

Just for a moment, Maeglin wavers; but then he imagines how quickly that open expression would turn to disgust were he to reveal his identity.

"No." He allows his voice to soften the tiniest bit at the other's disappointed expression. "Trust me, you would not offer did you know who I was."

"Try me." Stubborn, this one.

"If you are not going to leave, I am." Maeglin takes a deep breath and steels himself, then steps forward and pushes Gwindor bodily aside to get past him.

To his surprise, the other goes easily with the movement and steps out of his way, and Maeglin tells himself firmly that he does not have a right to be disappointed.

He is barely out of the door when Gwindor's soft voice at his back stops him dead in his tracks.

"You know, Maeglin Lómion is not such a bad name to have, though."

**Author's Note:**

> 1_"But when Gwindor would tell his name Túrin checked him, saying: 'I am Agarwaen, son of Úmarth (which is the Blood-stained, son of Ill-fate), a hunter in the woods.'"_ \- The Children of Hurin, Chapter X


End file.
